Idyls and Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

For such a loss—for such a loss—for him
Lost from our need: when storms ran high,
And lowering clouds and threat of winds were rife,
Snatch'd from the rudder and the noise of strife
Within another sky,
How should I find a due commensurate hymn?
How give such grief to failing words of woe?
—Grief hides herself from self:—from search of eyes
Trick'd in some vain disguise:
Sovereign of souls, dread Queen, no less
She wears a childly waywardness:
Within some valley low
And separate from the throng
She sits and weaves the song,
Fitting the rustic notes to present woe,
And to Sicilian echoes bids the requiem flow.

For he, too, was a Shepherd:—he thro' plains
Where, as of old, Cephisus, holy stream,
Ran warbled wanderings, and in Academe
Linger'd with Plato:—he, where Jordan flow'd,
Or Kedron, or Siloa, led the flock:
Or by the Stations of the Sorrowing Road:
Or where the bald bare Rock
Record of sacrifice retains,
Crown'd with the trace of high immortal pains.
And they look'd up and at his hand were fed,
And follow'd where he led.

Nor when in grief he bow'd the reverent head,
And wept affection fled,
From life's companionship too soon exiled,
Did the chief Shepherd aught relax his care,
A prey to sorrow wild,
Or thoughts too consecrate to things that were.
For still the flock received his primal care:
Whether within the circuit of the land
Some meadow-plague by summer's sun was nurst,
Or spring-tide of the year:—
Or whether in hot youth, and past command,
O'er fence and pale they sought less hallow'd cheer,
On earth's waste wilderness to pant and thirst,
And confident in too-confiding youth.
Within the verge of truth,
As best the Shepherd knew, he led them back,
And showed the surer track:
And well might point the way, who traced it first.

Nor when the sounds of war
And echoes from the perilous world without
Within Arcadia rang, and wide and far
Startled the shepherds: could he share the doubt
Glooming upon their souls, unnerved, unmann'd,
Deaf to the warning oracles of the land.
But call'd his friends, and on them breathed his soul;
And order'd so the whole
In just array to stand
With courteous love, and provident command.

Alas! for him, and more alas! for us,
The flock deserted thus!
For soon a wasting sickness, and the weight
And weariness of life bore Thyrsis down.
And in retired valleys, where the wind
Moan'd landward from south seas, to death resign'd,
Hid from their sight he loved, he sate:
Waiting the well-won crown
To faithful rulers by just laws assign'd.
Nor when the touch of Fate
Was on thee, didst thou swerve from that high mood
Of cheerful labour in the cause of good,
From that high mood of faith in coming joy:—

Nor did the flock the less thy care employ,
Nor thy soul's strength abate.

—So joy for thee: but grief the more for us,
The flock deserted thus!
Who should efface such loss—and who repair?
Not without pain, not without care,
We view the portents of the future shine—
For as the vine is honour'd among trees,
As the full grapes bring honour to the vine,
So thou wast honour and defence to thine.
Now since thy soul from sorrow found release,
Favonian gales and summer cease,
And Pales and Apollo leave the fields.
For what we gave (full promise) to the fields,
Unhappy tares and fruitless weeds appear;
The mead no more the violet may rear,
No more narcissus yields;
But darnel and the thorny thistle rise:—
In vain with withering leaves we strew the pall;
In vain on Thyrsis in our songs we call;
We view the pasture with averted eyes,
And winter on the fields:—
Now what thou wert to us we know the more,
And so thy loss deplore.